


Flash Point

by lastSaskatchewanPirate



Series: Incendiary [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, everyone is in their right mind here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-30 04:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastSaskatchewanPirate/pseuds/lastSaskatchewanPirate
Summary: Optimus has a problem.  Megatron is not at all convinced that he wants to be part of the solution.





	1. Chapter 1

Three mechs stood in the _Lost Light_ ’s hangar bay, waiting to receive Optimus Prime’s shuttle.

Technically, only First Aid and Megatron were supposed to be there, at least as far as the request from Optimus was concerned. However, Rodimus could always be counted on to overcome his general dislike and outright reluctance to have anything to do with Optimus Prime if doing so meant that he was thwarting Megatron from throwing around any real or perceived captainly authority. He had even gone so far as to plant himself in front of Megatron – not that doing so had much of an effect, given that the highest tips of his finials only came up to the bottom of Megatron’s chest. Still, credit had to be given for the effort.

All attention, however, was currently on the shuttle and its disembarking occupant. Optimus had hailed the _Lost Light_ claiming a medical emergency, requesting the presence of First Aid and – surprisingly – of Megatron, and consequently was now the subject of intense scrutiny as he crossed the hangar to stand before them, radiating his usual aura of restrained power and profound dignity.

“S’up,” said Rodimus brightly.

“Rodimus,” said Optimus in his inimitable grave tones, every syllable faintly wreathed with overtones of weary patience and mild disapproval. Rodimus, having weathered far worse in the disapproval category only this morning (and from Megatron, no less), remained stalwartly, offensively upbeat. Optimus stifled a sigh and moved on. “First Aid, Megatron. I appreciate your quick response to my distress call.”

“You said there was a medical emergency,” said First Aid, giving Optimus a practiced once-over with a gimlet eye. “Of what nature?”

Optimus side-eyed Rodimus, who beamed genially back at him. “It is … of a personal nature.”

Megatron blinked, nonplussed. “Then why request my presence as well?”

“Because,” said Optimus, continuing to side-eye Rodimus to absolutely no effect, “I require your assistance with its … resolution.”

“Excuse me?” said Megatron.

“Um,” said First Aid, who had gotten down to business with a hand-held scanner and was now analyzing the results with an air of mild disbelief.

Megatron redirected his attention to First Aid. “What?”

“This shouldn’t be possible,” said First Aid, staring at his scanner as though it had committed a devastating personal betrayal. “Primes don’t … I mean, it’s not physically … I mean. Uh.”

“I assure you, it is entirely possible,” said Optimus with the weary resignation of someone who has had to give the same explanation repeatedly and has had it invariably received with myriad levels of disbelief. “The Matrix –“

“—has left the building, remember?” Rodimus nudged First Aid with a pointy and unnecessarily forceful elbow. First Aid merely wobbled a bit before stabilizing. “We’ve been through this, yeah?”

“Oh.” First Aid looked up from the scanner, chagrined. “I mean … yes, of course I knew that, it’s just …” He waved a hand vaguely at Optimus. “It’s so strange to think of you as anything but …”

“… but the invulnerable, infallible Prime,” Megatron growled, “chosen of Primus; yes, _we know_.”

“I no longer carry the Matrix,” said Optimus patiently, loudly ignoring Megatron’s fulminations, “and as such am no longer impervious to certain … conditions.”

First Aid scanned him again, and shook his head. “Apparently so. Wow. Uh.”

Megatron looked as though he would very much like to throw all three of them out the nearest airlock, was deeply regretting that he no longer had the authority to do so, and was on the verge of becoming outright savage about the whole mess. “Do you think you could possibly provide us with a more clinical diagnosis than ‘ _wow, uh_ ’?”

“I am in the early stages of a receptive breeding cycle,” announced Optimus with the bland nonchalance of someone commenting on the current weather forecast or an interesting rock formation.

First Aid privately took note of the efficacy of that statement in rendering both Rodimus and Megatron utterly mute with shock, and resolved to find a way to replicate the effect as needed.

Megatron was the first to regain the power of speech, and initialized it with an outraged splutter. “How nice for you,” he snapped. “What the frag does that have to do with me?”

Optimus turned that solemn, implacable gaze on him, and Megatron felt as though he had just been forcibly punched through a glacier. “I require a partner,” said Optimus, and offered one hand, palm up and open, to Megatron.

Megatron looked at the hand with all the dour suspicion of someone being offered a live grenade, or possibly a large venomous snake.

Optimus had been through too much and had known Megatron too long to be deterred by a response as mild as that, and pressed on a little desperately. “I require a partner,” he repeated, “and I am requesting that it be you.”

A expression of utter horror bloomed across Megatron’s face like ink dropped into water, and he backed away from the outstretched hand so quickly that he nearly tripped over his own feet before colliding abruptly with the bulkhead behind him.

Optimus let his hand drop. Even with his battle mask in place, dismay and hurt were written so boldly across his face that everyone in the room – except for Megatron – felt immediately guilty, to say nothing of embarrassed for his lapse in decorum. Megatron was hard-pressed to feel sympathetic guilt even under optimal conditions, and was currently preoccupied with trying to recover the few tattered shreds of his dignity that remained while simultaneously panicking, being embarrassed about panicking, and trying to summon sufficient menace to intimidate everyone else into ignoring said panicking. Thus far, he was only succeeding at the panicking and being embarrassed parts, which did not measurably improve the rest of his demeanor.

Meanwhile, First Aid and Rodimus were looking back and forth between the two like a pair of spectators at an unusually slow-paced tennis match, before exchanging an eloquently speaking glance between themselves and deciding as one to extract themselves from the situation and its immediate vicinity with all possible haste.

“Well then,” said First Aid. “Look at the time. Lots to do; people to see, injuries to treat, that sort of thing. Must be off.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Rodimus impulsively, lunging toward the hangar door with an air of reckless abandon. “We can, uh … talk. About. That, uh, that thing. That we need to talk about. Right?”

“Right?” First Aid echoed. “Right. Right! Yes. The thing. That we should talk about. Let’s go talk about that _right now_.”

The hangar door sealed behind the acting CMO and acting captain as the two beat a hasty and undignified retreat.

Megatron glowered balefully after them, but Optimus was between him and the door and he had no intention of getting any closer than he had to. Exiting via the airlock was, in fact, becoming an increasingly attractive prospect.

They were both silent for a long moment, for their own reasons.

“Is it really so terrible a thought?” Optimus finally asked, that deep resonant voice little more than a whisper. “Do you … do I repel you that much? Is there too much hate between us now, that such an act is so terrible a burden?”

Megatron stopped his (tragically unsuccessful) attempt to inch imperceptibly yet nonchalantly toward the airlock, and stared open-mouthed at Optimus. Repeated review of Optimus’s question determined it to be genuine – inasmuch as it was not misperceived by Megatron’s sensors or outright hallucinated. Its veracity, however, did absolutely nothing to make it one iota less bewildering.

“… what?” said Megatron, who had given up on dignity and was now hoping merely to escape this whole encounter by any means necessary.

Optimus looked confused. Megatron took a small measure of mean satisfaction from that – at least he was no longer the only one confused here.

“What, what?” said Optimus, with an unusual lack of eloquence. That, more than anything else, made perfectly clear to Megatron just how off-balance Optimus had to be right now, and he began to grudgingly consider revising his initial impression that this was some sort of deeply insulting joke.

“Is this some sort of joke?” Megatron demanded. “Because if so, Prime, it is deeply insulting and I am very much not amused right now.”

It was apparently Optimus’s turn to stare, open-mouthed and bewildered. “Joke?” he finally managed to stammer out once his stunned expression had faded from ‘received pile-driver from Devastator’ to ‘mildly concussed by flying wrench.’ “Megatron, what … No! No, this isn’t a joke! I … Is that what you think?” Apparently it was also his turn to be horrified. “Why would I joke about this?”

“Seriously?” Megatron deployed a sarcastic eyebrow to devastating effect. “You come here proposing that I … that I _service_ you like a fragging pleasure drone, and you expect me to believe that it isn’t some sort of joke? Or, more likely, a trap? Surely there is some neat little sub-clause that brilliant tactician of yours managed to wedge into the terms of my sentence that promises dire retribution should I have the temerity to sully your plating with my touch, to say nothing of what would happen if I actually … what, bent you over the nearest berth and fragged you into stasis? I –“

Megatron’s rant was cut short by the sight of a genuine flush of embarrassment and arousal on Optimus’s face, and the impact of a massive EM flare of pure unbridled lust.

There was another long silence, in which the ticking of rapidly-heated and now cooling armor was extremely, pointedly audible.

“… well,” said Megatron, looking mildly concussed himself.

“… well,” said Optimus, still very flushed and also unable to look away from an apparently fascinating oil stain on the hangar floor. “Yes.”

“Not a joke, then?”

Optimus shook his head, still paying rapt attention to the oil stain.

Megatron ventured to sidle a little closer to his deeply discomfited enemy. “Not a trap?”

Optimus shook his head again. That oil stain had never before received such scrutiny, nor would again.

“You really do want me to … to …”

“To bend me over the nearest berth and frag me into stasis?” Optimus finally looked up and met Megatron’s wide-eyed gaze, and though he was visibly glowing with shame he was also just as obviously determined to fight through it with all the dedication and ferocity he had brought to any battlefield, literal or metaphorical. “Yes, please.”

Megatron blinked. Optimus continued to fail to be any sort of hallucination or sensor glitch. “You mean that,” he said finally, voice soft with baffled wonder. “You actually … Why?” His voice sharpened with suspicion. “Why me? Why not one of your loyal little Autobots? Surely, in all this time, you’ve taken at least a few of them to berth … why _me_?”

“I have taken more than a few to berth,” Optimus admitted, performing his own sidle toward Megatron, closing the distance nigh-imperceptibly and yet as inexorably as gravity. “It has, after all, been a very long war … but I don’t want one of them right now. I don’t want to be someone’s hero, someone’s mentor, someone’s role model right now. I want to be _fucked_ , Megatron,” and the sound of that human vulgarity sent a bolt of raw lust through Megatron’s spark in the way that no Cybertronian epithet could have. “I want what only you can give me, and I want it _now_.”

“And what is that?”

“Domination,” said Optimus Prime, and his eyes were the hot blue flame of a new star.

Megatron grinned like the hellish thing he was. “I shall certainly endeavor to oblige.”

“You will have to work for it,” Optimus warned him. They were chest to chest now, the space between them vanishing like it always did, no matter where or when or what the circumstances, the two drawn inexorably together like a binary star.

“I would expect nothing less,” Megatron replied, and then his hands were on Optimus’s arms and his mouth was on Optimus’s lips and they were fighting for the upper hand just like they always did; and first blood went, as it often did, to Megatron, those sharp teeth nipping Optimus’s lower lip just a little too hard.

Optimus growled low in his chest, wrapped his hands around Megatron’s hips and used mass and surprise to take them both to the hangar deck in a clatter and tumble of limbs.

Things degenerated rapidly from there. Any thoughts or focused attempts at seduction were quickly discarded for the visceral delight of pounding the slag out of each other; a rolling, thrashing brawl that shifted rapidly to wrestling, to grappling, and from there to writhing and thrusting and shouting and then to sticky satiation.

Megatron sprawled across the decking and listened rather smugly to the musical _plink_ sounds of their hot armor cooling against the cold floor. Optimus was sprawled across his chest, hot vents competing with the floor’s heat sink capacity, and the air above them shimmered from the temperature differential.

He draped one heavy arm across Optimus’s shoulders. “Feeling adequately dominated?”

Optimus snorted a laugh against Megatron’s chest plating, and looked up with a predatory gleam in his eye that had Megatron rapidly recalculating the odds of coming out on top, as it were, in this particular encounter. “Not even close,” said Optimus, grinning, and shifted to fully straddle Megatron, hands pinning broad shoulders against the floor. “That was just round one.”

Megatron rapidly began recalculating the odds that he would be walking without a limp tomorrow. The probability seemed low.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... and then they kiss.

Megatron was not known for possessing anything even vaguely resembling a sense of shame.

That did not, however, mean that he was quite as blasé about conducting personal affairs – literal or metaphorical – in a public venue as the last hour might lead one to believe, and his sudden awareness of the little blinking red lights of the hangar bay’s security cameras quite thoroughly eradicated his afterglow.

Definitely time to take this somewhere else.

Persuading Optimus to decamp from the hangar bay floor was initially complicated by Optimus’s desire to turn post-coital cuddling into Round Four, but pointing out the security cameras proved to be as effective at cooling Optimus’s ardor as it had been Megatron’s. The discussion of “my hab or yours” was likewise simplified by proximity: Megatron’s hab was down among the crew levels and therefore much closer than the suite Optimus would be occupying as a visiting dignitary; and while the shuttle had the advantage of being _right there_ , it was also barely large enough for Optimus on his own. Trying to cram Megatron’s bulk in there at the same time would, they decided, prove to be unacceptably limiting of potential frag positions.

Megatron’s hab suite it was, then.

Walking back to his hab suite with Optimus Prime would have been awkward under the best of circumstances. Doing so with a glaringly obvious mélange of paint transfers, dents, and dried lubricant decorating both their plating, while the security cameras followed their progress with obvious interest and the few crewmembers they encountered were completely unable to hide their grins – Megatron would swear that Trailcutter had given Optimus a surreptitious thumbs-up as they passed – was outright excruciating.

Other things were excruciating as well. Keeping his panels closed, for example. Optimus was far enough into his cycle to be smelling absolutely _fantastic_ right about now, and only the tattered remnants of his dignity and the arousal-killing dread of being written up for public indecency by the Duly Appointed Enforcer of Every Boner Killer Ever were keeping Megatron from throwing caution – and a few other things – to the wind and pinning Optimus to the wall for a quick grind.

That wall, there, for example. Nice. Flat. Sturdy.

_Right fraggin’ there._

Megatron ground his teeth, grabbed Optimus by the wrist, and broke into a run. His hab suite had nice, flat, sturdy walls, too.

*

The tone of the encounter had definitely shifted.

What had begun as Optimus being variously pinned against, bent over, or supported by any surface Megatron could find that was adequate to the task had become significantly more lighthearted when Optimus discovered that Megatron was ticklish. Megatron, who was currently supporting the vast majority of Optimus’s weight as he fragged him against the wall, promptly fell over when his knees unexpectedly gave out. Things being what they were, this resulted in Optimus landing rather heavily on Megatron, who had not yet caught up with the sudden switch from vertical to horizontal, to say nothing of the crushing disappointment of being abruptly removed from his very comfortable position between Optimus’s legs.

Things had become rather silly at that point. None of Megatron’s prior interface experience had included laughter, so this constituted a frankly revelatory development; and for Optimus, any opportunity for levity in the berth had been significantly curtailed by the Primacy, and he had honestly forgotten how much he had missed it.

The shift from serious to playful had likewise given them an unexpected opportunity in the form of Optimus pinning Megatron to the floor, tickling him until he wheezed for mercy, and then spiking him until Megatron’s eyes rolled back in his head. It also afforded them the opportunity to discover that Megatron would become utterly pliant and submissive if Optimus bit – gently – on the main energon line of his neck while fragging him slowly.

It was this position in which they currently found themselves – Megatron sprawled limp and dreamy-eyed beneath Optimus; Optimus mouthing gently at Megatron’s throat, hips grinding slow and deep; charge building slowly, inexorably, until Megatron’s back arched and his mouth opened in a long, silent moan and he overloaded like a wave breaking against the shore, plasma fire arcing between their bodies and seizing Optimus to drag him under as well.

“I didn’t know you could use your spike when you were receptive,” Megatron mused wonderingly, as soon as he had regained the power of speech.

“Mmh,” said Optimus profoundly from his face-down sprawl across Megatron’s chest.

Megatron patted him idly for a moment; and then the patting became more directed and more fittingly called caressing as a thought occurred to him; and then he grabbed a bleary Optimus by the hips, rolled them both over, and positioned himself at eye-level with Optimus’s semi-quiescent spike.

Optimus stared quizzically down the length of his body.

Megatron grinned back at him, opened his mouth, and set about changing ‘quiescent’ to ‘rampant.’

Optimus groaned enthusiastically, and didn’t argue.

*

Megatron stared at his hand.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about it – it looked and functioned as it always had – except for the fact that it was clasped in Optimus’s hand, palm to palm and fingers entwined.

“It’s almost over, isn’t it?”

Optimus hummed acknowledgement, turning his head just enough to draw the tip of his nose down the long straight bridge of Megatron’s, and nuzzled in to steal a kiss. “Regrettably, yes.” Blue eyes opened, stared into red from a ridiculously myopic proximity.

Megatron had expected to feel regret about this encounter. He had expected to feel a whole host of regrets of all shapes and sizes. He had not expected to feel regret that it was almost over.

He cleared his throat. “Could I … interest you in one more round?”

A merry, wicked smile lit up Optimus’s face, perfectly visible even though all Megatron could see was his eyes, blue as infinity. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

Megatron rose to his knees, tugging gently until Optimus was arranged beneath him on the berth, recumbent and calm and trusting. Smiling.

Megatron shivered. “Can we … I want to set the pace this time.”

“Of course.” Optimus spread his hands against the berth, braced his feet, arched his back; prepared himself for a galactically stupendous pounding at the hands of his greatest enemy, who …

… who rocked against him slowly, carefully, sweetly; who entered his sore, fragged-out body like the tide into an estuary, powerful and inexorable and infinitely gentle; who cradled his tired, aching hips in huge warm hands and stroked every tender, overwrought sensor – inside and out – with every smooth rolling thrust; who built their mutual charge into a towering surge that crested and broke and drowned them both.

That, thought Optimus muzzily as his processor struggled to reset itself, was not fragging.

That was making love.

Optimus closed his eyes. “Megatron?”

There was a subvocal rumble from the faintly-ticking pile of hot metal draped across his chest that might have been acknowledgement.

“Give me your spark?”

The faintly-ticking pile of metal shifted subtly from the stillness of post-orgasmic lassitude to the stillness of someone expecting at any moment to be eaten by a leopard.

Megatron rolled his head just far enough to be able to glare suspiciously at Optimus with one slitted eye.

Optimus didn’t take it personally. Megatron glared as a sort of default facial expression, and suspicious glaring didn’t necessarily communicate any sort of intent other than his being too preoccupied to bother controlling his face in a conscious fashion.

Megatron eventually deigned to shuffle his position atop Optimus enough that he could rest his chin between the alt-mode’s windshields, and stared at Optimus with both eyes instead of just one. “Should I assume from that request that you have a shunt?” he asked neutrally.

Optimus found a stain on the ceiling and set about committing it to memory.

Megatron sighed. “Optimus … you know that a merge under these conditions –“

“Yes,” said Optimus quietly. “I know.”

“And you want to do so despite the chance?”

“I want to do so _because_ of the chance.”

Megatron had honestly thought that nothing in the universe could really shock him anymore. Even fragging his dearest enemy through the berth (and the wall, and the desk, and …) for the past three days wasn’t really that surprising; they had always made each other run hot, always sought each other, always wondered in the deepest, most secret depths of their sparks what might happen if …

… well. Apparently he could still be surprised after all.

“Optimus, I …” He shook his head, dazed, processor and battle computer thrown abruptly into overdrive by the need to calculate _what that could mean_ , the myriad ways in which this could all go _horrifically_ wrong. He sat up and dragged a heavy hand over his face, mind and spark churning with dread and …

… and desire. Deep, deep down, so far down that he thought it no longer existed at all, there was a tiny flame of _want_. _I want this_ was a whisper in the back of his mind, in the depth of his spark; _I want this. Please let me have this_.

“Megatron.” That deep, commanding voice could be so soft, barely more than a whisper and yet enough to catch and hold his attention under any circumstances. Optimus sat up to look him in the eye, wearing serenity like a cloak. Millions of years of intense scrutiny meant that Megatron could see through it, though, and beneath that glacial, unshakable calm there was grief and regret, old and lingering and carried for eons, as much a scar as any physical wound had ever left; yet another mark their ages of war had left on each other.

“I will not force this on you,” said Optimus in that same soft voice. “I only ask that, if you refuse, you do it because you _do not want this_ and not because of fear.”

Not that long ago, Megatron would have refuted the very possibility of that word being remotely applicable; would have risen in rage, stung in his pride by the idea that he, Megatron, the Slag Maker, destroyer of worlds, could be afraid.

Things had changed. He had changed. And yes, he was afraid.

“I want this,” he confessed, and the words were raw and stripped his throat as he spoke them; but Megatron had never turned from a challenge and he wasn’t about to do so now. “I do want this, more than I had ever thought I could. But Optimus, are you certain? You know what is at stake, what will happen if we –“

“I know,” said Optimus. “But consider this: has there ever been any challenge that we could not overcome if we faced it together? We are the only true challenge the other has ever known, and not even Unicron himself could stand against us as a united front. Nothing lesser will stand a chance.”

Megatron was startled into abrupt laughter at that. “In that case,” and his words were underscored by the faint familiar sounds of a matched pair of minor transformation sequences, “how could I possibly refuse?”

Spark light flared in the room like twin suns, but Optimus’s smile was even brighter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... and then there was an epilogue.

While Optimus and Megatron had been enjoying their seclusion and the entire crew of the _Lost Light_ was spending inordinate amounts of time and credit in Swerve’s bar, drinking to forget and singing loud and terrible karaoke to drown out the noises that made it through the supposedly soundproofed walls, Ratchet had returned.

Megatron was frankly disappointed in this turn of events; he had hoped to be spared Ratchet’s acerbic personality, especially feeling as delicate as he did after four straight days of fragging and insufficient refueling. He had likewise been hoping to be spared the excruciating task of explaining to Ratchet precisely what was going on. It had been awkward enough with First Aid and he’d been feeling optimistic about not having to go through that again.

No sin goes unpunished, apparently.

Megatron sat on a berth and stared moodily at the array of scanners and monitoring equipment plugged into his chassis. On his own berth, Optimus was chatting pleasantly with his old friend while being hooked up to his own set of torture implements, First Aid meanwhile relegated to the background with an air of good-natured resignation.

Ratchet set up monitors and checked vitals and grumbled at all three of them, but it was mostly absentminded and lacking any specific vitriol.

Until Optimus’s monitors emitted a cheerful string of chirps and warbles, and several significant-looking lights began to blink.

Ratchet took one look and then threw a wrench at Megatron, who ducked. The wrench clattered harmlessly to the floor.

“Looks like congratulations are in order,” said Ratchet. His tone of voice was anything but congratulatory, but – as with Megatron’s near-permanent glower – that didn’t necessarily bode ill but was more of a default setting. “Well done. That’s a very well-forged spark bond you’ve got there, which is good, you’ll need that since _Optimus is sparked up_.” He threw another wrench at Megatron, who caught this one and promptly threw it back at him. “Looks like at least two, probably three little sparks in there, and by the way are you _insane_?!” Ratchet gave every indication of wanting to throw things at Optimus as well, but restrained himself. “With _Megatron_?! The stigma these little ones are going to carry is –“

“—our concern,” said Optimus, and though he did not raise his voice or make any overt movement, he cut off Ratchet mid-word and mid-rant. Ratchet looked into solemn blue eyes and shut his mouth with a click.

On the other side of the room, First Aid managed to catch Megatron’s eye, and gave him a wink and a surreptitious thumbs-up. Megatron blinked, nonplussed; First Aid was not exactly his biggest fan, but he supposed that discomfiting Ratchet to this degree had to be worth something.

Ratchet sighed. “Sorry. Optimus … I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” said Optimus, “I understand. But this is not something we have done heedless of the consequences, and –“

Optimus was interrupted from what was doubtless to be an inspiring speech on the subject of tolerance and overcoming prejudices by a musical chirp from one of the monitors. He and Ratchet both frowned at the scanning equipment dangling from various parts of Optimus’s anatomy, and then turned to Megatron.

There was a little green light blinking merrily on one of Megatron’s monitors.

This time Ratchet did throw something at Optimus, but Optimus was too busy kissing Megatron senseless to notice or care.


End file.
